


Blame It On The Wireless

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: But only if you squint, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, MFMM Year of Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: When a raid leaves several police officers injured, Phryne and Jack have some truths to confront.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, May's trope is Hurt/Comfort. For the first time ever, I actually didn't go too angsty. Shocking, right?

The police station was between the House of Fleuri and Phryne’s home, a fact Phryne had taken advantage of on more than one occasion. It was immensely satisfying to stop by Jack’s office, innocent as a lamb, and just mention in passing this divine new gown or set of lingerie sitting in the back of the Hispano and waiting for a willing audience. Watching Jack’s attempts to keep a disinterested demeanor in the face of it was a constant source of delight, and Phryne did so enjoy the little pleasures in life.

The day’s inspiration was a gown she’d picked up for a dinner party at Aunt Prudence’s the following week—Jack was unable to attend the event (she had doubts about the veracity of his ‘previous engagement’ but let it lie), and the idea of a private viewing that evening, to ensure a good fit of course, was on the table. Or, to be more literal, at the dinner table. And then the boudoir.

Unfortunately, Jack shook his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t this evening, Miss Fisher.”

She pouted prettily, a tactic they both knew was beneath her and was therefore the perfect combination of playful and affectionate to disarm him completely.

“Whyever not?” she asked. “I have it on good authority your latest case was solved with the minimum of fuss.”

He sighed, eyes flicking toward both doors, and Phryne leant in closer, catching a hint of his scent.

“There’s a raid,” he said quietly. “Early tomorrow. The inspector who’d organised it is ill, and I’ve been asked to lead it."

“You must have impressed someone,” she said.

“I’m fairly certain it’s punishment for continuing to work with you, Miss Fisher.”

“Well that’s just ridiculous,” she said, pulling her gloves on. “You wouldn’t clear half as many cases without me.”

“I’d have half the paperwork,” he pointed out reasonably, “and Doctor MacMillan is on my side, so it would be a quarter at most.”

“Yes, my best friend has become rather Judas-like in her alliances.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, smiling with a certain degree of smugness; it was rather aggravatingly appealing.

“Still, I don’t see why that precludes dinner tonight.”

“I’m going home to bed as soon as my shift is over.”

“Wardlow is closer. And you wouldn’t even have to make your own dinner.”

“I also wouldn’t get any rest.”

“Jack!” she protested with a smile, rounding the desk in order to take up her customary spot. “I think I can restrain myself for one evening.”

“Who says _I_ can?” he asked, and the suggestiveness of his smile made desire pool hot and heavy in her gut. Unfair. Time to up her game then.

She toyed with the scarf at her neck, allowing the silk to slip between her fingers.

“You really can’t make it?” she asked. “It’s just that Mr. Butler has made all your favourites—” her eyes flicked down his body suggestively, “and I’ve been looking forward to dessert.”

He sighed, somewhat apologetically, and dropped the pretense of a game.

“I really can’t, Phryne. Another night?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “I can have a meal sent over for you, if you’d like?”

“No, I have twenty minutes left before I head home. I’ll make myself an omelette or something—despite popular belief, I can feed myself on occasion.”

Phryne wrinkled her nose.

“I’ll see if Mac is free for dinner then,” she said. “Seems a shame to waste it.”

“The meal, or the chance to astound someone with your sartorial choices?”

“Both, of course!” she grinned, standing to leave.

“Give the doctor my regards,” Jack said.

“I will. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, we can arrange dinner then.”

“I look forward to it,” Jack said with a smile.

Phryne touched his shoulder.

“If you do change your mind, there is always the guest bedroom. Save you the journey home.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

With a wiggle of her fingers, Phryne headed towards the door. She paused for half a heartbeat, the urge to tell him to be careful on her tongue. He was a grown man who was more than capable of doing his job, and cautious to a fault; to say otherwise was more condescending than caring. She turned back and flashed him a smile.

“You know, Jack, perhaps you ought to leave these activities to the younger men?”

He smiled, half his attention already on the paper in front of him.

“Good night, Miss Fisher.”

 ———

Mac did end up coming for dinner, which was exactly as delicious as anticipated. Phryne could not help but feel that the more… suggestive options of eating asparagus were rather lost on her friend, but it was nice to catch up. After the meal they moved to the parlour; whiskey and music and laughter were just the ticket for dislodging the strange feeling of unease that had settled in Phryne’s gut. For the most part, at least.

“You know, Phryne, I’m not entirely sure I have your full attention this evening,” said Mac dryly towards the end of the night.

Phryne looked guiltily away from the clock on the mantel she had been watching.

“Sorry, Mac.”

“Any particular reason you’re marking the minutes? My presence can’t be that dull.”

Phryne smiled ruefully. “No, uh… Jack had to be at work early tomorrow. I offered the spare room, but…”

“Well, it’s late enough he won’t be stopping by now.”

“No,” Phryne agreed, then sighed. “Mac, if I were to say something to you, you would have to swear it wouldn’t leave this room.”

The look on Mac’s face told Phryne her friend wanted to make a joke, but she set her glass aside and looked at Phryne intently instead. “Always, darling.”

Phryne took a deep breath.

“I didn’t tell Jack to be careful today—”

“Do you usually?” Mac asked, clearly surprised.

“No, not really. I mean, we both know our jobs are dangerous but it’s not… it just is. And heaven knows he’s cautious to a fault anyway.”

“But…?”

“But I can’t quite shake the feeling that I should have,” Phryne admitted, finally putting the odd niggle that had lingered in her mind into words. “And I know, intellectually, that it’s for perfectly logical reasons—he’s coming into the raid at the last minute; it won’t be his men, aside from Hugh I suspect; I’m used to knowing what the case is—”

“And usually part of it,” Mac observed.

“Precisely. So I’m being overly superstitious, but I had half a hope he’d take me up on the bed so I could tell him to be careful all the same.”

Mac looked at her, both sympathetic and amused.

“Phryne, darling, I love you. But you are utterly mad,” she said dryly. “The man’s a seasoned police officer who knows you’d kill him yourself if he came to any harm.”

Phryne laughed and gave a shake of her head, dispelling that ominous feeling.

“You’re right, of course,” she said, standing to top up the whiskeys. She was being ridiculous, and she could never abide that. “Oh, before you go, I have this new record I think you’ll love!”

———

Phryne woke uncharacteristically early the next morning, the dawn’s light only just creeping above the horizon as she found herself out of bed. Back in bed. Unable to sleep. Tossed. Attempted to read a book. Turned. Paced the room, and realised the absurdity of such behaviour. Went back to bed, where she stayed—not sleeping, but still in bed. Perfectly normal. Really, who knew that a handsome man was all it took to turn her superstitious? Dreadful.

She was still in bed at half past nine, half-heartedly working on a logic puzzle, when there was a knock on the door.

“Miss,” came Mr. Butler’s voice, “there’s been some news on the wireless.”

She was out of bed and halfway across the room in an instant.

“What is it?” she called, tying the sash on her robe with one hand, the other running her hair into some semblance of order.

“A raid, miss. Reports say there’s one dead and several injured. I wondered if I should make a basket up for the inspector? I imagine it will be all hands on deck today.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. B. I’m sure he’d appreciate it. Has Jack telephoned yet?”

“No, miss. Were you expecting a call?”

“No, no, just a thought,” Phryne said hurriedly. “He probably doesn’t realise I’m awake yet.”

Which, to be fair, was a perfectly fair assumption under most circumstances. But there was no getting back to sleep and news to wait for, so she opened the bedroom door and gave her butler a small smile.

“I think perhaps I’ll take my tea downstairs today,” she said, and he nodded in acknowledgment.

She headed down the stairs, setting up in front of the wireless with a cup of tea and some toast. Mr. Butler offered to make an omelette, but her stomach had twisted at the memory of Jack’s teasing about his dubious culinary prowess. When the news came at the top of the hour there was very little new information, one dead and several injured, some police officers. Bert and Cec arrived, their faces drawn; Phryne went to stand, hoping they had news, but they shook their heads in near tandem.

“Went down there, Miss Fisher, but we couldn’t get a word outta anyone,” Cec said.

“Sit down then,” Phryne said, gesturing the other chairs at the dining table. It occurred to her that they’d never sat at this table with her—the kitchen table often, and they’d attended various parties, but they seemed out of place here. Another way the universe felt askew.

Mr. Butler did not, of course, sit at the table. But Phryne was quite certain he had dusted that room the previous day, so his ostensible cleaning was most definitely hovering. Whether out of concern for her or in hopes of hearing news she was uncertain.

The longer it dragged on, the less Phryne was able to forget the ominous feeling of the day before. No names had been released, no doubt in order to notify the families first. Phryne tried to ignore the fact that as impotently as she waited, the news would come from the wireless and not from a police officer at the door. Not that any harm had come to Jack, of course, but she knew he had a sister in Canberra that would be contacted in events like this. Which seemed rather absurd, surrounded as she was by people who—despite their grumbles and misgivings and positions within the household—had clearly come to regard Jack as family. But blood was, as they said, thicker than both water and whiskey.

After another half hour, Phryne was quite fed up with the whole thing; she was not made to sit idle. She could telephone Dot first—her friend was home that day, only working part-time at the moment, but Hugh would certainly have been more thoughtful than his boss and reassured his wife as soon as possible. Then she could find out what hospital the injured were taken to, and march down there to give Jack a piece of her mind.

As she stood, the telephone rang. A rush of relief flooded through her, and she smiled

“I’ll get that, Mr. B,” she said, hurrying from the room and answering the telephone. “Fisher residence, Phryne Fisher speaking!”

“Phryne?” came a voice, but not the one she was expecting.

“Oh, morning Mac.”

“Phryne, don’t panic. Jack—”

The receiver fell from Phryne’s grasp, making a dull thump as it hit the rug.


	2. Chapter 2

Later she would marvel how quickly she had responded. Dropped telephone. Up the stairs. Dressed. Lipstick on. Slipped out the back door to avoid Mr. Butler. Drove—at a speed that was far too slow for her tastes but she knew she didn’t have the mental acuity for her usual shenanigans—to the hospital. Parked the car. Went to adjust a hat she wasn’t wearing. Out the door, towards the hospital entrance. There were reporters there, the deputy commissioner giving a statement—all Phryne caught was something about the sacrifices of his men, and her speed doubled. Up the stairs. Men’s ward. Saw some uniformed officers in the distance, made her way towards them. Nodded as she walked past, composure barely kept. Turned a corner.

Saw him.

Time stopped, her stomach flipped, a small, strangled sob escaped her mouth. He was standing in the hall, deep in conversation, with nary a scratch on him. Her eyes flicked over him twice. His suit wasn’t even rumpled, for heaven’s sake! As if sensing her presence he looked up, excused himself, and began to walk over.

Phryne did the only thing she could think to do: she turned on her heel and walked away.

He called after her, but she just kept walking. Around the corner, past the constables, out of the ward, down the stair, past the press, into the motorcar, drove home, up the path, through the door, muttered something to Mr. Butler, up the stairs, into the bedroom, shut the door. She sat down at the vanity, staring at her pale face in the mirror, too numb to do anything else. 

Numbness faded, replaced by anger. Deep, bubbling, entirely irrational anger. And when the door to her bedroom opened without so much as a knock, she whirled around, ready to unleash it.

He stood, hat in hand, nght the middle of the floor with a look of irritation on his face.

“I didn’t hear you knock,” she said coldly.

“That’s because I didn’t. What was that, Phryne?”

“Get out.”

The confusion on his face felt like a punch to the chest.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Just… get out,” she said, biting her tongue to fight off the tears threatening to fall. “Get out now before I….” she crossed the room, planning to push him out the door herself if that was what it took to make him leave. How dare he stand there as if everything…

She caught a hint of his cologne, and the hand on his chest became a fist as she dragged him closer. Her other hand gripped the back of his neck, her mouth was on his with a ferocity that might have surprised her if she wasn’t ready to overflow with pure fury.

“Get this off,” she growled against his mouth, releasing her grip enough to tug at his suit jacket; he tossed his hat, wedged between them until that moment, onto the bed and shrugged out of the jacket.

“I thought you—”

She bit at his lip. 

“Unless you have an objection, shut up.” 

She threw herself into it, mouth busy, hands busy, not thinking; he hesitated for another moment, confused by her behaviour (and she could not explain it, could not think of the words when all she wanted was the frantic press of his body against hers), then responded in kind—his mouth on her neck and his hands cupping her arse and oh god that thing he did with—she tore at his shirt, the last clothing between them, groaned as the buttons popped free.

She pulled him towards the wall, mouth and teeth and fingernails, pressed her back against it. His hands slipped from her arse to her thighs, lifted her up, thrust so deeply she gasped at the pleasure with a bite of pain. Scraped her nails against his shoulder blades in retaliation. Snarled wickedly against his mouth. 

Frantic. 

Fast. 

Together. 

She screamed when her orgasm hit, guttural and unfamiliar. The sound of grief that almost was. He lowered her gently to the ground, hands resting on her waist as he breathed heavily against her ear.

“What was that, Phryne?” he asked softly. Too soft, too familiar; there were no secrets here. 

She stared at his chest, the scars and marks on it a map of a dangerous life. She bore her own scars, she knew, but few that blemished her skin.

“I thought it was you,” she said.

“Me what?”

“Hurt. The wireless said that there was one dead and injuries. And I waited and you didn’t telephone and…” laid out like this, the whole thing was an absurd leap from fact to speculation. “When Mac telephoned—”

“I asked Doctor MacMillan to let you know I’d be by in an hour, if you were free,” he said. “I wanted to see you, but I couldn’t get away to telephone myself.”

It occurred to her that if Jack was fine, it was men under his command at that hospital. She ran her hands up and down his arms.

“Yes, I’m afraid I didn’t let her finish,” Phryne admitted. 

“You leaping into action?” he asked, voice dry, and Phryne looked up to meet his eyes. “I’m shocked, Miss Fisher.”

She laughed despite herself. 

“All I could think was that it could be you and I wouldn’t know for hours if they had to notify your next of kin first…”

He drew her close, pressed a kiss against her hair.

“Phryne, if anything ever happened to me… Collins would tell you first, damn the rules and regulations. You know that, right?”

“Clearly not,” she sniffed. 

“Now you do,” he said. 

“I’d rather not need this information in the future.”

“Strangely enough, I’d rather you didn’t need it either.”

They just stood there for a moment, letting the weight settle upon them.

“How bad was it?” Phryne asked.

“It could have been a lot worse. The deceased was one of their men. I’ve got four constables in hospital, only one there for more than an overnight observation. I wouldn’t have even had that if the investigating inspector had left proper notes about the plans.”

“Ahh, the double-edged sword of paperwork,” Phryne said. "But I’m glad.”

He nodded. 

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” he teased, his face sombre but merriment in his eyes.

“Provisionally,” she returned, then looked towards the bed deliberately. “But I can think of some very pleasant ways for you to make it up to me entirely.”

He sighed.

“I have to get back to the hospital, at least for awhile,” he said, and Phryne realised he must have left things there unfinished to arrive at Wardlow so quickly. 

She looked around the room, found where his shirt had fallen; even at a distance she could see that several buttons were missing. 

“There’s a spare shirt in the closet,” she said. 

“Purchased for just this eventuality?” he asked, stepping away to retrieve it.

“Well I was imagining more ‘fit of passion’ than ‘apparently terrified’, but yes.”

Phryne watched him dress, evidence of their lovemaking still apparent on his skin, and breathed. As he was grabbing his hat, she smiled.

“Will you come for dinner tonight?” she asked. “After all, that gown won’t wear itself…”

He looked at her with a small, lopsided smile. “Well, I’m not sure it would fit me…”

She laughed. 

“Oh, get out!” she said, shooing him away with her hands.

He crossed the room once more, to kiss her sweetly goodbye, then donned the hat.

“I’ll be here as soon as I’m done,” he promised. “Do try not to leap to conclusions until then?”

“Out!” she ordered, pointing. “You’re a beast, you know.”

He winked and headed for the door.

“And Jack?” she called out. “Please be careful?”

He was a grown man, of course, and she suspected most of his afternoon would be spent doing paperwork, but she wasn’t saying it for his sake. 

“I will if you will, Miss Fisher,” he said, “and I think we both know how likely that is.”


End file.
